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twelve murders over the past ten years in the city, and all involved machetes or swords. The cause of death was never a gun or kris dagger, and certainly not biting. People attacked with their teeth, particularly when women fought each other, but they didn’t die that way. The identity of the killer and his victim made the news all the more shocking. They knew Margio the teenager and old Anwar Sadat all too well. It would never have occurred to anyone that these two figures would feature in such a tragic drama, no matter how eager Margio was to kill someone, or how detestable the man named Anwar Sadat.
    A few moments slipped by as they pondered, as if lost in thoughts of rancid blood burbling from a punctured neck and a teenage boy staggering in panic, stupefied by his own recklessness, his mouth and teeth red, like the snout of an ajak dog after its morning kill. These imaginary scenes were too astonishing to believe. Even the pious Kyai Jahro neglected to whisper innalillahi , while Sadrah mouthed indistinct words and forgot to wipe his gaping mouth. Ma Soma was getting tired of standing there, and turned his bicycle around, giving them a sign to hurry, and so they set off, becoming all the more panic-stricken, as if the murder had not yet taken place and they were going to thwart it.
    It was true that while Sadrah was on his way home from prayers at the surau that afternoon, still wearing a sarong, he had noticed the boy carrying the samurai sword from the hut where the nightwatch stood vigil. Everyone now was talking about that sword as proof that he had long harbored an intention to kill. The nightwatch hut stood in the middle of the village, opposite a defunct and overgrown brick factory. The samurai sword hung from the boy’s hand as he plodded about, scarring the ground with its tip. At another moment he sat on a bench, swinging the sword, hitting the slit wooden drum used to sound the alarm. Several people saw this, but paid no heed. The sword was so worn out and rusty, it couldn’t decapitate the scrawniest chicken.
    Decades after the end of the war, the many samurai swords left behind by the Japanese had become decorations or talismans. Most of them were neglected and eaten away by the salty air, as Sadrah recalled. Perhaps Margio had found his sword at the dump or tucked away inside the brick factory. Sadrah noticed it and didn’t overlook the fact that, no matter how damaged, it was still a sword, although he didn’t seriously suspect that the boy intended to put an end to Anwar Sadat’s life. There were no signs that they were at odds, as far as their neighbors knew.
    He asked for the samurai sword mainly because he was worried that Margio was drunk on white sticky-rice arak and spoiling for a fight. These kids liked to get drunk, and that was the source of countless petty problems. He couldn’t kill anyone with that worn-out sword, but drunkenness might push him to beat a neighbor’s dog, then the neighbor might throw a rock at him in return, and things would get out of hand. Moreover, at last night’s herbal tonic company’s film screening at the soccer field, a crowd had gathered, an event which always threatened to unleash the fighting demon that lurked among the boys. The violence could drag on into the next day and often for days afterward. Whatever the case, Sadrah had good reason to worry about an unsheathed samurai sword being carried around at a roadside, no matter how harmless the object might seem.
    â€œWhy?” Margio asked, unwilling to hand over his toy. “Look, it’s just a useless old piece of iron.”
    â€œBut you could kill someone with it if you wanted,” Sadrah said.
    â€œThat’s my plan.”
    Even though the boy had clearly said he meant to commit murder, Sadrah paid no heed. He coaxed the kid, and after threatening to take him to the military headquarters, he managed to get the sword, took it home, and tossed it on top of